


I Won't Even Wish for Snow

by Rynne



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Getting Together, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, M/M, Romance, Secret Admirer, Twelve Days Of Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:29:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynne/pseuds/Rynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is sending Derek Christmas cards with half-insulting, half-complimentary messages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Won't Even Wish for Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paperclip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paperclip/gifts).



> Written for the [Sterek Secret Santa](http://stereksecretsanta.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Merry Christmas, paperclipmagnets! Several of your prompts called out to me, but I didn’t think I could do Dopplegangland in Teen Wolf justice in the word limit, so I went with this one instead (and still went slightly over the word limit :p). It’s set in some indeterminate post-3A world. Title comes from “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Hope you enjoy!

Most of Derek's mail is junk. He doesn't need credit card offers or grocery coupons or Macy's catalogues, but he keeps the PO box in Beacon Hills for bills and because the Sheriff says he needs to have a mailing address. He never gets letters.

Except, on December 16th, Derek checks his mailbox and finds three postcards. He turns them over in his hands, ignoring the writing side for the moment as the stark black and white lines on the back of one of them catch his eye. It appears to be a passable hand drawing of two birds -- doves? -- facing each other, wings outstretched, though, very oddly, with tiny turtle shells perched on their backs. In between them is a small, clearly photoshopped image, some sort of fruit tree with an ostentatiously large, out-of-place bird hovering over a branch. Frowning, his eyebrows drawing in, Derek looks at the backs of the other cards.

One of them is a larger version of the bird and the tree. The other looks like clip-art, of three chickens with a giant speech bubble above their heads, saying, "Joyeaux Noël," with the two birds in one corner and the bird and the tree in another.

What the fuck.

But then he looks at them again and resists the urge to smack his forehead. Who the hell would send him hand-made Christmas cards of the Twelve Days of Christmas? He gives the writing side a cursory glance, but there's no return address or signature, and he doesn't recognize the handwriting.

He takes them home to read them because he's had enough of standing in the post office and doesn't want to read whatever-this-is in public, but when he arrives back in his new apartment, actually reading the cards is not illuminating.

The writing is in cursive, thin lines lightly drawn in tight loops. The partridge one reads, "You're funny when you bitch people out." The turtledoves card says, "You're almost as resilient as the Energizer bunny and it's really impressive." The French hens card reads, "You might be the least chicken person I know."

They're…compliments. Sort of. Back-handed, weird, sort of insulting compliments, at least. For him.

What?

He has to double-check to make sure his name is in the address field -- it is -- because this is pretty much the last thing he expected. Who would send him compliments on Christmas cards? The only people he really knows are the pack he and Laura sometimes ran with in New York, the pack Cora decided to stay with in Washington state, and Scott's pack here. He left his mailing address with the New York pack in case there'd been anything to forward on, but it's been nearly a year and he hasn't heard anything from them, so he doubts one of them is sending him cards. Cora has his address, of course, and he got along well enough with some of the other 'wolves near his age in the Washington pack, but he didn't think any of them were interested in him enough for this.

Scott's pack are simultaneously the most and least likely culprits. They're here in Beacon Hills and they actually know him, but he didn't give any of them his mailing address and, while they certainly get along better now than in the past, they're not close. None of them seem likely to want to compliment him with handmade Christmas cards.

He knows who he _wants_ it to be, but he tries not to think about that. There are many, many reasons it would not work out, and he's tired of dwelling on them.

He looks down at the cards again, his hands slowly flipping between them, not sure if he even wants to figure out this small mystery. It's probably nothing. He won't get any more cards, and that will be the end of it.

*

He doesn't go back to the post office the next day, or even the day after that. Yeah, it looked like the cards were a clear pattern, but they could have been flukes. Maybe someone got misdirected and has since realized their mistake.

(But the cards had _his name_ on them. That's a pretty clear indication they were meant for him, right?)

He checks his mail again on the 19th, and his heart does _not_ thump harder when he sees three new cards. This time he takes them home immediately, stacked carefully on top of his jumbled junk mail on the passenger seat. When he gets home, he tosses the junk on the kitchen table and drops onto the couch with his cards, looking at the backs before turning to the writing.

The fourth card has four black birds in each corner, apparently hand-drawn like the turtledoves and not symmetrical, with the previous images arranged in the middle. The next has -- Derek grins before he manages to wipe the smile off his face -- the Olympic rings in the middle, except in gold rather than their traditional colors, and the previous images arranged as a border. The sixth appears to be an actual photograph of geese on a pond and its beach. He closes his eyes and chokes down a laugh, because there are six geese, and each of them has a tiny colorful Easter egg pasted below it, even the ones on the water. The previous images are tiny and pasted on rocks on the beach.

The first card reads, "You're smarter than you act, which might be a good thing. Smart is sexy and you don't need any more help there." The second card says, "I like the expressiveness of your eyebrows. They're almost expressive enough to be a second mouth, or maybe a first one considering how much you talk." The third reads, "Would it be creepy if I were to stare at your eyes until I figure out what color they are? Though I'm not sure you're the best judge of what's creepy."

Derek tries not to smile, because he can see Stiles writing these. Stiles would love designing quirky cards, and he'd get a kick out of writing the pigtail-pulling messages.

And Stiles…might be able to get a hand on Derek's address. Derek doesn't even know all the means he has at his disposal, but Stiles is good at finding things out, if only because he's persistent and stubborn enough not to give up.

Could it be Stiles behind these cards? Derek finds himself tracing over the pictures, imagining Stiles taking the time to design these cards personally and write out these messages, thinking about what might make him smile or laugh or just be amused at how bad the flirting is. For almost a year now, Stiles has been nearly the only person to ever take time for Derek.

Derek shoves the cards away, leaving them in a pile on the coffee table. He shouldn't think about Stiles being behind this. Shouldn't hope. Whether or not he even likes Derek like that, and Derek doesn't know that he does, Stiles is sixteen.

Derek walks to the kitchen to pull out a Lean Cuisine from the freezer, and doesn't look back at the cards on the table.

*

He tells himself he's being an idiot, but this time he does go to the post office the next day. He isn't really paying attention to scent -- the post office gets so much traffic that trying to pick out a scent is too difficult to bother with most of the time anyway -- which is why he's surprised when he almost bumps into Stiles leaving just as he walks in.

"Derek!" Stiles's eyes widen, and now that Derek _is_ paying attention, his scent starts to concentrate and his heart thumps faster. "What are you doing here?"

Derek gives him a flat look. "Picking up my mail," he answers shortly, because really, Stiles? What does anyone do at a post office besides pick up mail and send it?

Sending mail. "What about you?" Derek asks, because Stiles actually lives in a nice neighborhood and has a mailbox of his own to send and receive mail from, rather than living in the kind of apartment complex where residents steal each other's mail all the time.

"Oh, um." He rocks back on his heels, then sort of jumps and flails away from obstructing the door when someone coughs behind him. Stiles waits until the woman walks away before saying, "Just sending a present to my grandma. She lives in Florida." He bobs a bit before adding, "Sometimes we go see her for Christmas, but usually Dad has to work around then, so we just send presents."

His heart is beating faster. It didn't skip enough to indicate actual lying, but maybe he isn't telling the whole truth.

Or maybe Derek's falling prey to wishful thinking.

"Um." Stiles bounces again. "Got any Christmas plans?"

Derek smiles a little bit, because he actually does. "I'm going to Washington on Christmas Eve. Spend a few days with Cora, since she still doesn't want to come back here."

If he has to survive his first Christmas without…without Laura, at least he still has another sister to spend it with.

"Oh, that's, that's good," Stiles says, nodding a few too many times. "I'm glad. That you have someone to spend it with. That's good."

Derek eyes him, because his heart also did something weird there and Derek has no idea what Stiles is thinking, but he's not up for trying to figure it out right now.

He'll probably overanalyze it later tonight.

"Well, I guess I'll see you around," Stiles says abruptly, moving back. "Merry Christmas, Derek."

Then he's gone, almost before Derek can say, "Merry Christmas," back.

*

The swans card is funny, with a ridiculous play on the Ugly Ducking story that makes Derek almost certain Stiles is behind the whole thing, but it's the milkmaids card the next day that cinches it, even as it twists his heart.

This card is actually sincere, and says, "I feel like I can afford to be vulnerable around you. I know we'll keep each other safe."

_He's sixteen,_ Derek tells himself yet again. _He's sixteen, and I could crush him even without meaning to._

_But he cares. He does this stupid, ridiculous thing because he's thinking about me. Maybe…I could be good to him. For him._

Derek makes himself stop thinking, and just gets in the car, all eight of the cards tucked in his jacket pocket.

*

Derek approaches the Stilinskis' front door, even though he can see the cruiser outside. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it _right_.

"Is Stiles home?" Derek asks when the Sheriff opens the door and they've said hello.

The Sheriff raises an eyebrow, but doesn't ask why he's there, just steps aside and says, "I think you know where his room is. Go on up."

Derek keeps his face still, because the Sheriff probably wouldn't let him just go up to Stiles's room if he knew why Derek was there, but Derek would definitely rather have privacy for this. He stops outside Stiles's door long enough to listen for a moment, but he only hears Stiles's heart and the clacking of computer keys, so Derek knocks quickly and then opens the door before Stiles can do more than start to react.

"You -- what?" Stiles says, halfway standing from his desk chair. He looks at the window, then back to Derek in the door. "What are you doing here? And -- knocking! That's a thing!"

"I knocked," Derek says, flashing him a smile before moving inside and closing the door behind him.

Stiles sputters. "I didn't invite you in, and, and you're supposed to _wait_ after knocking, except obviously being polite is too much for you." He collapses back into his seat, pouting and slightly flushed. Derek lets himself find that pink tinge charming.

"Well?" Stiles demands, when Derek stares a bit too long. "Please don't tell me there's something weird in the Preserve. I was just starting to sleep at night again."

Derek can still see the bags under his eyes. They're getting smaller, now that Stiles isn't so tormented by nightmares, but Derek wants to see them disappear completely.

"No," he replies, his voice a bit low, gruff. "I wanted to ask you something." 

Stiles frowns at him, but his heart picks up. "Something unrelated to the supernatural? All right then, hit me."

Inside his pocket, Derek's thumb runs up and down the edge of the cards. It's not too late for him to change his mind.

Instead, he pulls the cards out of his pocket, fanning them out in front of him, image-side up. "Do these look familiar to you?" he asks, and immediately Stiles's heartbeat is nearly deafening and his eyes look huge in his face.

"What, did you want help tracing them?" Stiles says, not looking at them directly. He winces slightly, like he knows Derek can tell he's avoiding the truth. "Hate to say it, but I can't exactly trace postcards--"

"Stiles."

Stiles puffs out a sigh, tilting his head back. Derek suspects it's because he doesn't want to look at him anymore, but the movement puts his neck on display, the smooth, clean lines of it, his moles. Derek wants to nibble and bite, and lets himself imagine it.

"Just wanted you to get something nice for the holidays," Stiles mumbles, still looking away. "Gonna let me down easy or can I look forward to another humiliating rejection?"

"You were the one flirting through half-insulting messages and not even signing them," Derek points out, ignoring the _humiliating rejection_ part. He's watched Stiles make a fool of himself over Lydia, but he's also watched him grow to admire her as a person and a friend. "How did you get my address?"

"I called Cora. Now I owe her an unspecified favor to be redeemed at a time of her choosing. You'll protect me from anything too dangerous, won't you?"

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Brave of you. Both to call Cora and to rely on me to protect you after you've been insulting me."

Stiles's lip quirks up and he looks at Derek again, but his eyes are still wide, his heart beating too fast. "How else were you supposed to know it was me? Besides, you clearly haven't read all the cards. Some of them are not even the least bit insulting."

Derek looks down at the milkmaids card, then moves until he can sit down at the end of Stiles's bed. "I know," he says.

Silence falls for a moment, and Stiles tilts his head, watching Derek. "I can't help but notice that you're not rejecting me."

"Observant," Derek replies, his own lips twitching up as he sees the hope, and the fear, rising in Stiles's eyes.

But Stiles lives up to his words on the card and doesn't flinch away. He spins his chair until he's facing Derek and leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "Let me see what else I can observe," he says, voice gentle, warm. "You came here to confront me about the cards, but not to reject me."

Stiles looks at him expectantly, and Derek knows it's his turn to speak. Stiles has already said almost everything.

"I wasn't going to say anything," he haltingly explains. "You're sixteen, and I screw everything up."

"I won't let you," Stiles says simply, like it _is_ that simple. "Derek. Not everything is your fault. Or revolves around you."

Derek shakes his head, because he doesn't want to get into his guilt complex now. "I'm interested," he manages to push out, "but I don't want to--" His tongue sticks around all the things he doesn't want to do to Stiles, all the things he _could_ do so easily. Stiles is less naïve than Derek was at his age, but he's still inexperienced.

"So don't," Stiles replies, understanding what Derek can't say. "You think I don't know why you're hesitating? But something made you come here today."

Derek pulls out the milkmaids card, reads the message on it once again. _If Stiles can do it, so can I,_ he says, and lets himself be vulnerable, this time by choice. "We need to talk about it more, but…" He closes his eyes, then opens them again to watch Stiles waiting for him, eyes bright. "I want to try."

Stiles is up and out of his chair almost too fast for even Derek to track, and Derek first has an armful of warm human boy, then an off-center, close-lipped kiss pressed against his mouth. Derek cups Stiles's head to angle him better, and shudders when Stiles makes a muffled sound. He wants to taste it, taste all of Stiles's sounds.

He's already smiling when he starts to pull back. "By the way," he says, when there are only scant inches between their faces and Stiles is cross-eyed looking at him, "the Twelve Days of Christmas technically start after Christmas Day. Not end."

Stiles pulls away, sputtering. "Wait, what? How do you know that? Are you sure?"

Derek grins, not even regretting the slightly mean edge. "Didn't research this, then? The Twelve Days of Christmas are Boxing Day on the twenty-sixth through Epiphany, on January sixth. Look it up if you don't believe me."

Stiles's eyes narrow. "I will, thank you. And in the meantime, _you_ can go tell my dad why you came here, since apparently he let you in."

Derek leans forward and kisses Stiles's forehead, and Stiles's face softens as he moves back.

Besides, the Sheriff likes him now. That conversation will probably be excruciating, but Derek won't hide. He doesn't need to.


End file.
